


Distracted

by Irena_Lyre



Series: In the Blood [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Carpe Diem, Established relationship by now, Frottage, M/M, One-shot crime scene smut, PWP pretty much, Seize the arse, Vampire psychology(?), Vampire!John, post-Reichenbach AU, which would be Carpe Natem apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irena_Lyre/pseuds/Irena_Lyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s nostalgia at a crime scene leads to an epiphany, which results in unexpected implications for the case. Post-Reichenbach AU where John has become a vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distracted

The dim warehouse smells of rust and mothball, its squeaky floor seldom-trod except by Scotland Yard, recently. The only utility that seems capable of functioning is a wash stand, a steady stream running from the leaky faucet in silence, the button on the soap dispenser smudged by fingerprints in diesel. In a corner next to the stacks of half-rotten wooden boxes and a long-outdated bulky engine, the victim’s body has been removed, the stains of blood and the disturbance in the layer of dust marking an outline.

“Any thoughts?” DI Dimmock asks in anticipation, as if expecting a magic answer from Sherlock any second.

John’s thoughts are not on the case. From the moment he steps into this warehouse, something is stirred inside of him. His eyes are caught by the tail of Sherlock’s long coat swishing with the movement of his hip, before flickering back to the gigantic faded corporate logo on the boxes and the derelict machinery.

That very logo, in much brighter colours, used to grace a factory by the riverside in John’s hometown. There were several establishments of the same kind that seemed to have been there since the days of the Industrial Revolution – as long as John could remember, anyway. At the zenith of its glory the factory took up a large portion of the male working population of the whole town, and John’s big cousin was amongst them. Having a difficult sister means that his cousin filled the big-brother shoes, and John got his kicks out of sneaking around the factory as much as any third-grader.

“Johnny,” he said once, “when you’re big enough, you can get on the super noisy cart I drive. The buttons do different things and it’s fun.”

For that promise John looked forward to growing older, but a recession hit the year he entered Sixth Form, and the factory closed without much notice. The chimneys and the noise were gone, which could be considered good for the environment. His cousin moved away for work shortly after. John did not think much of it – they had grown somewhat distant by that time.

_We live in a time of change._

_Who knows, this engine could have been a part of a super noisy cart._ Sherlock seems to be focused on something tangled on it, his brows deeply furrowed. John has always found that look of intense concentration a little bit sexy. But today is one of the times when Sherlock has not said a single word two days in a row, so John tries not to distract him in any way.

A few years have passed like days, of _them_. John still gets the milk, and still bickers at Sherlock for it, which is not a very supernatural thing to do. They have had a lot of cases, and a lot of sex. On some days it’s rough and ardent pounding against the pretty wallpapers, on others it’s lazy long stroking with chatter and giggles on the sofa. John has learned to navigate Sherlock’s body like 221B itself, and to think that people called him _asexual_ , gosh, how dumb people can get. Actually they’re just _less fortunate,_ John keeps a smug smile to himself. Past the initial fear and uncertainties, they have settled into this life. Still more dangerous than most, admittedly, but John has gotten comfortable with the secured amount of perils to be shared. In any occasion, a kiss from Sherlock is as granted as the long-running soap opera on telly.

But that could _end_. Not a _change_ , but an _end_ , the ultimate closure.

John hates the suddenness of his realisation. He is fairly certain that he will, like it or not, witness the end of the series, and the end of television at least in its current form - not necessarily in that order. _Terminated, finished, worn away by no other than Time_ – without a warning. Like the long-standing factory by a riverside and the promise with it, what feels like an entity of eternality could, and will, be _gone_.

_Wishful thinking in the first place._ There is no such thing as _forever_ for anyone, not even for an immortal. _Especially_ for an immortal.

In a panic, John fumbles as if trying to hold on to something. Dimmock is eyeing him with questions. Sherlock, on the other hand, is being utterly imperceptive for the observant man he is. The crime scene is probably not making much sense – the slight constriction in Sherlock’s jaw is a sign of frustration, John knows it. A good day or a bad day, Sherlock is _here_ at this moment, and John is with him.

_The case be damned._ This moment is real. This moment is all there is.

“Inspector Dimmock,” John breaks the long silence in haste, “I think we might need a bit more time in here, if you don’t mind leaving us alone? Makes for better access.” He adds the explanation weakly at the confused look.

Dimmock is less than enthusiastic about the request, but he complies. “All right, whatever you see fit. I’d be right outside.”

“Could you close the door on your way out please, no disturbing the…investigation. Thanks!” John calls from behind.

_Thank God it’s not Lestrade._ Lestrade would have known.

\---

 

“Thank you John,” Sherlock utters under his breath, “he’s been thinking too loudly.”

John does not answer until the door has clicked shut. He looks at Sherlock, as if meaning to say something, but then decides to just shove him against the wall, his full body pressed into Sherlock’s as he captures Sherlock’s mouth for a heated kiss. Sherlock grunts unprepared, but catches it anyway. John pulls back to make room for his hands untangling the scarf. “I want you,” he whispers, “right now.”

“We are working,” Sherlock huffs, his pupils darkening abundantly.

“So be quiet,” John kisses the side of his jaw. It’s no longer tense. John stuffs the scarf into his pocket – the floor is way too dusty, then moves his hand to gently squeeze at the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, with a smirk.

“John,” Sherlock breathes shakily, “are we seriously getting off at a crime scene?”

“The crime scene is not the point,” John undoes Sherlock’s button and fly before moving on to his own, “you are.”

Sherlock is not sure what that means, but it sounds like a compliment, and a incredibly hot one. He gives in to the moment, pulling out John’s shirttail as John pushes down his own pants. John’s mouth is now pulling and sucking at the soft flesh of his neck, and that’s definitely leaving a mark. But he’s got no attention to spare at that. Sherlock’s stifled moans become tiny sharp noises from the back of his throat. _Oh, this is torture, but oddly, oddly good_. He could not contain a discernible outcry when his erection brushes John’s. he buries his face in the crook of John’s neck in abashment and apprehension, as John’s hand holds their shafts together, gliding up and down in alternating firmness of grip.

“That’s right, keep it down,” John murmurs into his ear, “bite me if you must, we’ll finish quickly.”

Sherlock grumbles infuriated, his teeth sinking into John’s nape. It does help. The sharp exhales from his nostrils tickling down John’s spine are in sync with John’s fingers playing around his balls. John squeezes his eyes shut in bliss, his muscles tensing. He thumbs over the tip of Sherlock’s cock, then his own, smearing their pre-cums into one mess. His hip is thrusting into his own hand and against Sherlock. Sherlock frees a hand from around John’s shoulder to stroke his long fingers on John’s partially exposed inner thighs, up to his balls. John almost screams, the second half of the sound drowned in his lungs. His legs tremble.

“Come for me, John,” Sherlock utters as softly as he caresses, “do it.”

John grunts through clenched teeth, his fist pumping harder. His vision blurs momentarily as his body arcs. John’s ejaculation spurts onto the front of Sherlock’s shirt, then drips down. He takes a moment to resume proper breathing. Sherlock has pulled back from him, his face still fully flushed.

“Sssh.” John turns back to him before Sherlock has made a sound. John invades Sherlock’s mouth again, his tongue grazing Sherlock’s with zeal. His fingers has made a ring around Sherlock’s cock, in careful and patient motions. He deliberately slows down to feel the throbbing pulse inside. Trapped against the wall, Sherlock’s head turns weakly, the heaving in his chest stretching his tight-fitting shirt. John perceives hints of needy, pleading noises on the tip of his tongue, and quickens his pace.

“Unf – um.” Sherlock shudders in John’s grip, freeing his mouth from John’s for oxygen as his head falls on John’s shoulder in slackness. His semen stains John’s shirt likewise.

“Beautiful,” John mutters, as if to himself.

“I would really like to sit down,” still leaning back against the wall, Sherlock’s voice is harsh and low, “but not on that floor.”

John casts him a fond look before walking over to use the wash stand. He yanks out handfuls of paper towels from whatever is left in the dispenser, and hands some to Sherlock. They look at each other and chuckle. “Well, put on your scarf, button up your coat,” John suggests, pulling the scarf out of his pocket, “and I’ll zip up my jacket and turn up my collar.”

“Please, I think they can smell it.” Sherlock smirks as he wipes down his shirt.

“Which is why I’m opening up this window.” John leans over to push at the fragile wooden frame with both hands. A slight cracking ensues. “Oh, brilliant, I broke it. That doesn’t count as compromising the crime scene, does it?”

“Oh, right, the crime scene. Where was I?” Sherlock’s jaw is tense again, and John could not help feeling the second-hand guilt of the interruption. “The hair, the screw… the window. Oh, of course, the _window_!”

Before John knows it, his mouth is covered by Sherlock’s in a sweeping, gooey smooch. “Ah, John, you did it again. Dimmock!” Sherlock yells, his eyes glittering with revelation.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” John growls, “zip up your trousers first.”

\---

 

“The dry cleaner will have so many questions,” Sherlock comments casually as he finishes unbuttoning, and casts his shirt on the sofa on top of John’s.

“Then maybe you should get some poor people shirts, doll.” John doesn’t actually mean that, for he secretly very much enjoys the sight of a well-tailored shirt on Sherlock’s fine body. But what he enjoys more is rubbing Sherlock’s back in only a tee shirt like right now, because that means they’re _home_. “On another note, it was quite a pleasant surprise, how the case turned out. Pretty clever, huh?”

“Extra clues aside,” Sherlock says in all seriousness, “the enlightening effect of a dopamine rush on the mind is well-known, helps to make connections. Although,” the corner of his mouth crooks at John, “I doubt that it would justify employing the approach more often - ”

“Oh God, probably not.” John is exhilarated by the notion. “Today was…um…I was a bit…carried away.” He is reminded of the trigger, and his heart sinks a little. _Not now_. Now it’s all good. “Sherlock, I love you.” He blurts.

Perhaps tomorrow, John will find himself yelling at Sherlock again for silly things like setting the kitchen on fire, but now he’s saying what needs to be said.

Despite all these years, Sherlock is still not good at verbalising this sort of things, John knows that. Leaning on John’s shoulder and nuzzling John’s neck means “Me too”, and John ruffles his hair. “Dinner? You must be starving.”

“Chinese would be fine,” Sherlock mutters, “then _bed_.”

“Okay,” John kisses Sherlock on the cheek, lingering near his ear, “and I will make you _loud_.”

**Author's Note:**

> *porn spree resulted from fandom frustration*
> 
> Concerning the language: my inclination to write explicit contents in not-my-first-language is still a mystery to myself. While I do pick out a few mistakes every read-over, hopefully none of the remaining is too embarassing! Please feel free to point out anything weird (or wrong), I would really appreciate it! xxx


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